A Tale of Rogues (DRAGON AGE)
by buloup
Summary: Not long after the Inquisition came into power and took down Corypheus, three individual souls spread across Thedas. Yet, despite the distances and differences between them, they somehow come to meet in unusual circumstances... Rowanne; a mysterious rogue, Donovan; a young knight, and Julien; a mighty prince and the son of King Alistair Theirin. *Cover credits to artist*
1. PROLOGUE

**PROLOGUE**

Ser Austin followed the path down south, the forest becoming denser and denser the further he walked, his footsteps becoming louder and louder beneath the twigs and roots he tripped over. The sun had completely disappeared behind the grey clouds that covered the grey sky, the grey fog making it difficult to navigate through the giant, spindly trees and the fallen tree trunks.

His armour clanked, the birds that were once singing in the trees above flew away as soon as he drew near; he could easily give himself away to bandits and thieves. His brother told him to wear an outfit of thick hide instead, an outfit perfect for stealthily exploring southern woods — he hadn't listened. His Templar armour glistened whenever the watery yellow sun peeked through parted clouds and reminded him why he was doing this in the first place and gave him a reason to be proud of who he was.

"Are you okay, Captain?" Knight Donovan asked, his stride changing as he matched Austin's pace. "You seem to be lost in your own thoughts today."

Austin barked out a laugh, his eyes remaining ahead of him, barely avoiding walking into trees that only made an appearance when they were at arms length. "Better than being lost in these Maker forsaken forests," he said, shaking his head and forcing a smile. A joke, though what he said was true, at least for him.

"Don't be so sure, Ser. The mind can be a dangerous place for some."

"Yes, Donovan, and we call those people 'mages' and lock them up because of it…" Austin glanced toward his soldier, shaking his head. "Join the others, young knight. We are still a few hours from our destination, especially at our current speed."

Donovan looked as if he wanted to object, though bowed briefly before returning to the other knights who were just recently put under Captain Austin's command. Austin eyed Donovan wearily, whose back was now turned. Austin's shoulders felt heavy and not just from the armour that had been weighing him down for days.

The sun was due to set soon, Austin knew that unless they picked up their place, they wouldn't make it there until tomorrow.

"Come on, lads! Adjust the straps of your rucksacks and start jogging!" he called, signalling to the south, the direction in which they were headed. "This way, we'll make it before midnight."

He heard grumbles coming from behind but chose to ignore them. Instead, he focused on the path ahead, making sure not to run into any tree trunks, trip over fallen branches or scrape his wrists and face on brambles, though he knew his own old joints would ache the next morning, too.

 _But if what we seek is where we are searching, young Donovan may never see the light again.  
_

 _/ / /_

Rowanne froze, breathing calm and steady. Her hood flapped in the breeze, her cape billowing behind her.

"Who goes there?" the man shouted again from across the field. She counted four men, all Templars and all stiff from the cold air and all wanting to find a nice warm bed to fall into. Rowanne knew this, staring at them from a field away where they were no larger than the size of her thumb. She knew this because she felt the same, and she'd been tracking them since Redcliffe village; they'd been walking longer than she had.

They'd sleep soon, though. Rowanne would make sure of that.

Rowanne didn't answer, she simply waited, watched and anticipated their next move. She saw them huddle, formulate a plan and then, within the minute, start striding assertively towards her, their hands on the hilt of their swords, ready to attack if necessary.

It would be necessary. Rowanne ran a fingertip down the blade of her freshly sharpened knife. She had been waiting to use it on at least one of them since she had first heard them talking. Now she had the chance; some place remote and quiet, eerie, spooky, _perfect_.

Lothering — a village abandoned long ago when the darkspawn of the fifth blight flocked from the Korcari Wilds up to the north. The towns folk had fled, seeking asylum in a place far away. Many had died. The thick bones of a Qunari lay to rest inside a cage just to the left, a squeaking gate to the old tavern a little further behind that. So many corpses. It should make her stomach turn, but it doesn't.

"I said—" A dagger thumped into the chest of the first knight and, judging from the fancy breastplate and intricate shield art, he seemed to be the captain of the small squad. Rowanne watched him fall to the ground, her hand still held out in front of her from the force of her throw.

The other three exchanged frightened glances, wondering whether it would be wise to scatter or to stand their ground. Fight or flight.

The corner's of Rowanne's mouth curved into a grim smile, her hand slowly falling to her side where another throwing knife rested against her thigh. She said nothing, not even when one of the knights began to shriek at her, telling her to back off. They were Templars, after all — big-headed, too proud, obnoxious… Rowanne would be happy to rid the world of a few more of them.

A wave of energy surged through her as the three came running towards her, their swords raised high above their heads and the angry call of their battle cry which was soon lost to the wind. Rowanne stood her ground, simply waiting for them to approach her themselves; and they did, running straight into the hands of death itself.

/ / /

The prince raised his sword, his green eyes scanning the room carefully. Two opponents, both armed with training swords, the blades blunt from years of use and little maintenance. They were rarely used but, when they were, always with valour. Here, you either lost or died, where your blood could stain the marble floor to remind others of what was at stake. To survive meant winning against the prince; winning meant risking angering the prince, his pride was on the line, after all. To win meant serving the Royal Guard, to live to serve and protect the prince. But, at the same time, you also made an enemy out of him.

Prince Julien, however, had yet to lose his temper because of a defeat. He'd never lost a duel before. Tactics; he'd always been told that tactics were the key to winning a fight, that pure strength alone would never be enough to walk away from a fight alive. Anyway, Julien thought himself a calm man despite what everyone else seemed to believe. And he definitely wasn't a sore loser.

But now he was against two people, two trained warriors by the looks of things. One hailed from the Free Marches, Starkhaven, a noble of the city with much power and responsibility, though obviously seeking more of the first, less of the latter. The other came from Orlais. Julien could instantly tell from the accent, his posture, aura, the way he held his head a little higher.

Julien could see his father out of the corner of his eye, the King's cold glare freezing Julien's own heart. Two skilled warriors against the young Prince of Ferelden — how this had been allowed, Julien had no idea. To fail meant public embarrassment with half the Royal Palace watching. It meant letting his father down. That was not something he wished to do.

He rolled his shoulders backwards and, trying to ignore his father's piercing gaze, raised a taunting eyebrow at the two men.

To kill the prince would be a crime most foul — a life's sentence in the Keep's dungeons at least, or a visit to the headman's axe.

Julien tried to keep this in mind as he surged forward with as much force as he could muster, tears forming in the corners of his eyes as his sword clashed against the armour of the Orlesian.

It was over before he knew it.


	2. CHAPTER ONE

**CHAPTER ONE**

"A band of Templars… _Missing?"_

Julien's father was stood in front of the window, looking over the rooftops of the market district, across the fields and beyond. He had yet to spot his son who was standing by the door, contemplating knocking but also not wanting to disturb the King.

Julien sighed and lowered his gaze. His father had been busy as of late, more distant. His mother said it was just the stresses of being king that was making his father remote and tired all of the time. Julien wasn't so sure — he knew there was more to it than that. He knew it was more personal.

"Your Grace…" Julien murmured, trying to keep his footsteps light as he tread carefully to where the King was standing. Alistair didn't look up or even turn around to look at his son. His hands were clasped behind his back, his deep red doublet and its silver embroidery glistening in the setting sun.

"Julien," the King said softly. When he did turn around, Julien watched his father's brown eyes turn a shade darker, though only momentarily. "What are you doing here?"

Julien paused before saying anything, wondering if this had been such a good idea after all. There was no knowing what would make his father angry anymore, even just a simple 'hello' was enough to set him off if someone said it at the wrong moment. "Mother is worried about you." Another silence settled in the air as Julien didn't know how to put his feelings into words properly. "And you haven't said anything to me all afternoon."

Julien's mother had told him that his father had once been a placid man, kind and gentle to his people. That he had travelled the entirety of Ferelden in order to save it, befriended rogues and even _witches_ in order to fulfil his destiny — the destiny that came hand in hand with being a Grey Warden.

But the look in his father's eyes when Julien uttered the last sentence made him doubt almost everything his mother had ever told him about Alistair Theirin.

"Go to bed, son. I will speak to you on the morrow." His father raised an arm, gesturing to one of his royal guards to usher Julien out of the room. He just accepted it, allowing a man named Nathaniel to lead him by the elbow out of the King's bedchambers.

Julien waited until he was certain there was no one around before wrenching himself out of Nathaniel's grip, hoping his glare was menacing enough to prevent the guard from trying to grab him again. "Tell me what's going on with my father!" he whispered angrily, rolling one shoulder back and clenching his fists.

Nathaniel's face didn't change, his expression neutral aside from the constant little smirk that permanently made him look as if he perceived everything as a joke. It infuriated Julien, but the young prince chose to say nothing. He stood his ground instead of fleeing in the opposite direction like he so wanted to. Nathaniel scared him, though he knew the knight shouldn't.

Nathaniel was his mother's knight — the Hero of Ferelden and once a Cousland (where she was still second only to royalty) — or so her subjects liked to call her. Queen Elissa was fair and just, both when acting as a monarch and when being a mother. And she was modest, shaking off the title that had been given to her after the defeat of the fifth Blight, and refusing to answer Julien's childish questions, most of which were queries of her adventures. Julien's childhood friends spun tall tales of dragons and fire whereas his parents only spoke of their battles, making it seem very dull. He had never known who to believe so he made up his own stories.

Julien took a deep breath to calm himself before starting again. "What is my father planning?" Julien asked in a low voice in order not to draw the attention of the common guards who were pacing the corridors. "Why won't he speak to me?"

Nathaniel laughed, though it came out harsh and loud and made Julien flinch. "Little man, who are you to question the King?" he asked, ruffling Julien's hair with a armoured glove. Julien's blonde hair became tangled instantly, his thick eyebrows furrowing in disgust.

"I asked _you_ a question, Nathaniel, and as heir to the throne of Ferelden, I command you to tell me what's going on!" he whispered as angrily as he could, though the quietness of his voice did nothing to help him.

The knight shrugged, his obnoxious half-smile never failing him. "Unfortunately for you, your command has been overridden by the fact that I don't _know_ what His Majesty is planning…"

Julien shut up after that, silently following the knight through the vast palace to his own bed chambers on the other side of the building to his parents' room.

Two unfamiliar faces guarded his room, their helms covering the entirety of their faces but their eyes, though they were still hidden by shadows.

The windows of Julien's rooms spread across one wall, showing that it was dark outside. Julien found that he wasn't tired despite the battle against the two knights earlier that morning. He must remember to properly welcome them into his personal guard later, for he had only shaken both of their hands and told them the Maker must have been on their side during that battle.

Julien sat himself down on the armchair by the window, wondering yet again of his parents' adventures. Had his mother really touched the ashes of Andraste? Had his parents made contact with the Witch of the Wilds?

The prince found himself wishing he had lived his parents' past, traveling Ferelden, meeting people from foreign lands, making friends with high lords, exploring Elven ruins and Dwarven tunnels. Back then, they were still accessible but still full of darkspawn, giant spiders and other deformities.

And sometimes Julien found himself a coward, when goosebumps covered his skin at the thought of leaving Denerim.

In his eighteen years of life, Julien had never left the gates of Denerim. He had never travelled through the Korcari Wilds or climbed the Frostback Mountains, or met the Dalish elves of the Brecilian forest. He had never seen elves outside of the Alienage, shackled to slavery and poverty by their past and by the humans who have yet to let it go.

Julien favoured the company of the merchant dwarves; they had seen it all. Some delved around in the Deeproads under Orzammar for lost treasure or simply to loot the bodies of dead men. Either way, it was a perilous trip in the dark, not knowing what you were stepping on or what you would bump into.

Julien sat in that same chair deep in thought until almost midnight, judging by the position of the moon. His father had taught him many things, such as how to estimate the time of day, how to read maps and how to command an army though he had never put the latter into practice.

Julien sat until his eyes became droopy. He gave in to the comfort of his feathery bed and slept well into the following morning, only to be awoken by an angry Queen.

/ / /

Rowanne picked her way around the three dead bodies, the Captain was further off. She had left them to bleed, their eyes still fluttering as the life left them. She rummaged through the rucksacks they had dropped during their flight towards her, but they only contained stale bread and a few dozen arrows. She took it all anyway, though she had no need for any of it.

She reached the Templar captain a few paces over, lying in the grass with a dagger just inches away from his heart. He was still alive, to Rowanne's pleasure. "Why are you not clad in steel, little Templar?" Rowanne asked, her voice laced with fake-sympathy. The Templar noticed and tried to spit in her face. Instead, it landed on her muddy shoe. She tutted at him and reached over to twist the dagger just a fraction. The knight gasped in pain and gritted his teeth.

"You knights never learn to abandon your pride, even when death stares at you in the face." She lowered her hood, her black hair blowing in the cool wind. The Templar looked at her face though he showed no reaction to it. Rowanne sighed. "You do not recognise me, truly?"

The Templar shook his head. She could see it pained him to do so. "What do you want from me?" he murmured, managing to mask his fear though his voice was still small.

"What's your name?" she asked him slowly, pronouncing every word clearly. She could see his eyes turning foggy in front of her own, and now every moment counted.

"Ser Wendall of Highever, m'lady," he rasped, his grey hair hung lank across his face, damp with sweat. A small dribble of blood ran down from the side of his mouth, though he didn't seem to notice.

Rowanne nodded, ignoring his courtesies. "And what are you doing so far south, Ser Wendall of Highever? Witch hunting?" The corner of her mouth lifted slightly. "The Witch of the Wilds?"

It was meant to be a joke, but the way his cold, grey eyes focused on her when she mentioned that name made her realise that she had hit the mark. "She hasn't been spotted around these parts for many years, friend," Rowanne said icily, her cheeks tingling from the cold and from the embarrassment. "Why are you looking so vigorously when there is no hope?"

She had seen the large group of Templars perhaps a week ago, when they were marching along the road from Denerim. They had looked so proud and tall in their shining armour, the fresh faces of new recruits and the old, worn faces of the veterans. Rowanne looked at Ser Wendall now and wondered at what point did he start giving up.

Ser Wendall spat blood, but this time avoiding her shoe. "People have sighted her. We know what we're doing, young lass. Don't think we're going in blindly."

Rowanne had tried her best to keep the rumours quiet, to stop them from spreading around Ferelden. She knew Flemeth, and she knew where she was. She knew what she was capable of and knew that this knight's death would be a cleaner one compared to whatever the Witch of the Wild had in store for them.

The knight's breath came out ragged. "We will find the witch. We will put an end to her."

"Don't be so sure," she murmured as the old knight's eyes fluttered and shut. She knew they would not open again.

She stood up straight and looted the knight's body. He carried nothing of importance and she left with light pockets once again.

Lothering was once again quiet, eerily so. Only the slight howl of the wind kept her company as she wandered along the stone steps further south. Her heart felt heavy. She would have to pick up her pace if she wanted to catch the Templars before Flemeth did.

But her heart felt heavy for other reasons, too. The information she had gained from the elderly Templar was good enough, yet she was disappointed, for a fifth Templar had chosen to take flight up the stone steps, vanishing with haste along the road and back into the Korcari Wilds. She had only noticed a moment too late; by then he had been too far away for a clear shot.

/ / /

A scout came running, a look of despair on his weathered face. He weaved in and out of the tall, thin trees, one hand clasped around the hilt of his sword which was slapping loudly against his leathered thigh. The symbol of the Templars was stitched onto his shoulder and he wore the necklace of the Order around his neck which was bouncing up and down and glittering in the moonlight as he scurried towards the slow-travelling group that Donovan was part of.

They were close to where his captain was leading them. Ser Austin took the lead, walking steadily, not rushing. He continued to reassure his knights that he knew where he was headed, but Donovan couldn't help but glance at the sky which had turned dark and heavy. Only the moon guided them, and it was young Sam who noticed that they had been travelling in circles for the past hour or so. Or maybe he was the only knight brave enough to face Ser Austin.

"We've walked through this clearing five times now, I bet," Sam called out the the captain once more. "Are you certain you know where you're taking us?" He added 'Ser' as an afterthought but Austin's glare was no less menacing because of it.

"No, I—" but before he could finish his sentence, the scout came running into the clearing, doubling over and rasping as he tried to catch his breath. "What in the name of the Maker is this?" Ser Austin asked loudly, turning on his heel to glare down at the middle-aged man who had managed to interrupt him mid-sentence.

It took a moment for Donovan's eyes to adjust to see the man's face, but he recognised it immediately. "I sent you off with Wendall!" Austin yelled, the anger prominent on his scarred face. "Where is he?"

"He… he…" he stuttered, still trying to inhale a sufficient amount of oxygen into his lungs.

Though Austin didn't have the patience for it. "What is it, lad?" he said sternly.

But the man collapsed to his knees before another would could escape from his dry lips. Donovan watched from a distance as Ser Austin called out commands, his croaky voice ordering the men to drag the scout from where he was curled on the floor, to make sure he recovers properly, and quickly.

Sam muttered to himself for the next half an hour or so as they continued along through the trees on foot. The scout was being carried on a makeshift stretcher by a rotating group of knights. He didn't wake until the sun began to rise, and by then, it was too late.


End file.
